


Worthwhile Mistakes

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade decides it's time to move on from one mistake - and hopefully not make another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worthwhile Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at the Sherlock Kinkmeme.  
> Original prompt: Lestrade is married, unhappily so because he knows that he is really into men. One night after a particular angsty fight he storms off to a bar known as a place to meet the gents, cue Sherlock picking him up in the rude most obnoxius manner. And Lestrade loving it.

 

It was almost midnight. He let himself in quietly, deciding he'd have a quick drink, then see if he could get to bed without waking her. Or perhaps he'd just sleep on the sofa. Probably better that way. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up, kicking his shoes off too. He padded through the hallway, heading for the kitchen.

 

"Let me guess. Paperwork?"

 

It made him visibly jump, and when he turned he saw the slight smile on her face. Not because she was pleased to see him – because she was pleased to have caught him out. He nodded.

 

"Yeah, you know…"

 

She cut him off. "Yes, I do. Or do I? Late home every night this week. Every night last week, too. Who is she? Someone at the station? Someone I've met?" she spat the last words out with venom.

 

"No! I mean, there isn't anyone – no one, I promise." Lestrade couldn't explain just how wrong she was. He didn't want another woman – hell, he didn't want the one he had. He worked late because he wanted to avoid the silence of the evenings, the clipped conversations, the pointlessness of it all. Better to be working, to be achieving something.

 

"Promises are so easy to make, so hard to keep, aren't they?" she said, walking toward him. "You promised things to me, once. Promised to love and cherish, remember that? Remember that day? Probably the last time you were on time for an appointment with me, wasn't it?"

 

Appointment – it was so cold. They had been dates once, then arrangements. Now they were appointments, and no, he wasn't very good at keeping them.

 

"It was work!" Lestrade protested. "I can't just ask the criminals to knock off at half five, can I?"

 

"No, but you can leave it to others, you can bloody walk away. You can't save the world, Greg; nothing's going to happen if you come home on time once in a while. You're not fucking Superman."

 

"Yeah, promotion's not going to happen if I do that, that's for sure. Promotion, money, to keep paying for all your shoes and hair and fucking…" he waved his hands, deep down knowing he was being unfair. He knew she liked the job well enough when it suited her, when they pay came in, when it meant she could go out with the girls and not worry about leaving him home alone. She'd stopped telling him about her plans – now it was a note on the fridge when he got home, if she bothered at all. He didn't blame her. He didn't really resent her spending the money. In some ways he felt guilty, guilty for thinking he loved her, for convincing himself and everyone else that this was the one. He remembered the stag do, the jokes about freedom, the strippers, the drinks. He remembered waking up on his wedding day in a strange bed, next to a stranger. He remembered knowing he was making a horrible, terrible mistake. But somehow it was now a done deal, and he couldn't back out now he'd got this far. He'd stammered something to the man he was in bed with, scrambled into his clothes and stumbled out into the street.

 

He remembered standing at the front of the church in his smart suit, with his best man, the pews filled with people, the beautiful woman walking towards him, a vision in her white dress. He remembered the ache in his arse as he stood there that reminded him of the night before – the passion, the strength, the feeling. He did love her, he told himself. He did.

 

He remembered saying 'I do', when all he wanted to do was turn around and tell everyone that it had all been a terrible mistake, and it was better to stop it now than to keep on living a lie.

 

"Oh, so now it's my fault? Now it's about me? I don't just want the money, I wanted you. I wanted a husband." She was shouting now, pointing at him, and he could see her eyes were filled with tears. He didn't want her to be upset; he didn't want her to cry. He'd noticed the slip into the past tense, and he knew she was as unhappy as he was. He knew she'd been seeing other men – he was a fucking detective, after all. It didn't take much to work out when she'd taken advantage of the long hours he worked to find some pleasure in the arms of another. He wanted her to be happy, and he knew she couldn't be, not with him. In some ways it had been a relief.

 

He turned around, stamping back into his shoes.

 

"What the…where are you going?" she shouted.

 

"Just…" he didn't know, if he was honest. Anywhere, anywhere that wasn't here, trapped in a flat, trapped in a marriage.

 

"If you walk out now, Greg, don't bother coming back," she was really shouting now, and he thought the neighbours could probably hear.

 

As he opened the door he wondered if this was it, this was the end. Or the beginning, perhaps.

 

 

He walked briskly, heading to the city, the bars, the anonymity. He realised he'd left his coat hanging in the flat, but he couldn't go back. Walking kept him warm, anyway. He kept going, through the quieter residential streets and then into the busier roads, past pubs first, then bars too, and finally the clubs, the pulsing beats, the scantily clad women and the city boys, then further, into Soho, where it was the boys who were scantily clad, and finally he slowed his pace. He knew some of the joints – the ones to avoid, mainly, and he finally walked into a bar that looked smart enough not to be trouble and busy enough to lose himself in. He fought his way through the crowd and ordered a whisky. He swallowed the first one back, feeling the warmth invade him, and ordered another. Then he turned to survey the room, lighting a cigarette as he did so. His gaze drifted over the men – all sorts of people, some dressed up, others not; some in groups, others alone. Everyone moving subtly to the beat of the music.

 

Except one. One man, standing right at the end of the bar, totally still. And looking directly at Lestrade. He swallowed, wanting to break the invisible bond, wanting to look away, but he just couldn't. And then the man moved toward him, seeming to glide through the throng, his long coat accentuating his height and his slim build. Not Lestrade's type, too tall, too skinny, too fucking young. But he still couldn't look away. The man was looking him over, utterly shameless, no apology, no sly glances, just checking him out, head to toe.

 

The man leaned close, bending slightly, shouting to be heard above the music.

 

"You're here for sex, right?"

 

Lestrade didn't consider himself a prude, but his eyes widened and he turned to look at the young man. His gaze was returned, level, emotionless, even calculating.

 

"If you're not," the man's breath was warm on his neck, "You must be very naïve." And he took Lestrade's cigarette, pulling in a lungful of smoke, the orange glow intensifying as the air rushed through the tobacco. Then he replaced the Marlboro between Lestrade's lips, the tip of his middle finger stroking down over Lestrade's stubble on his chin.

 

Lestrade couldn't help but smile. Sex hadn't been the only thing on his mind. He'd have been happy just to stay there, to smell the sweat and feel the bodies, to dance the night away with nameless, faceless strangers.

 

"You offering?" he shouted back, wondering why on earth this man had picked him, out of all the perfectly sculpted bodies writhing around them.

 

"Obviously," came the reply, then the man threw back his drink – water, Lestrade thought, from the colour and the lack of alcohol on the man's breath – and began walking away. It took Lestrade a moment for his brain to catch up. He'd been in the joint for less than ten minutes, and somehow he'd already found something he hadn't even known he was looking for. He swallowed his own drink and followed.

 

The man was striding ahead, but he was easy to spot. Lestrade felt vaguely ridiculous, but somehow he couldn't stop himself. He kept pace easily - he refused to run to catch up, refused to trot after the man like some sort of puppy. But he did follow.

 

He thought it was about ten minutes before the man came to an abrupt halt, not turning, but opening a door to a flat. He never once looked back, but when Lestrade reached the door it was open. He stepped inside, closing the door behind himself and looking up the dark stairs. The road was smart, the buildings large and well kept. The interior high-class – all matching the man's accent, the clipped tones, the perfect diction. A long way from Lestrade's glottal stops and dropped letters.

 

"Come on then!" the voice sounded impatient. Lestrade wondered what he was getting himself into, but he obeyed.

 

The flat was messy, piles of books and papers everywhere. A violin lay precariously on the arm of the sofa. The man had shed his long coat and scarf and dumped both over the back of an armchair.

 

"This way."

 

Lestrade couldn't explain it – he'd never really gone in for this sort of thing, not without considerably more drink inside him – but now it excited him. He could already feel himself growing hard in his trousers, and as he followed the man up another flight of stairs he adjusted himself a little.

 

"So…what's your name?" he asked, as they reached another landing.

 

"Redundant," was the clipped answer.

 

He just nodded, mutely, accepting. This wasn't about names or words, it was all about the action.

 

"Strip," the man said, as they arrived in the bedroom. For a moment Lestrade felt a tiny frisson of fear, but the man was already taking his own shirt off, removing the feeling of danger.

 

Lestrade obeyed, but he did so slowly, marvelling at the lithe body being revealed before him. The man was pale – startlingly so, compared to his thatch of dark curly hair. His ribs were visible as soft shadows on his hairless torso.

 

"Come on," the man said, his tone irritated, impatient.

 

Lestrade dropped his shirt and kicked off his shoes for the second time that night, dropping his trousers in a heap and stepping forward. The man held up a hand and Lestrade felt compelled to obey. Then the man walked forward, the same look on his face – assessing, contemplating, examining. He reached out and stroked down the soft line of hair which led from Lestrade's chest down his belly. Then the hand moved further down, gripping Lestrade's cock, gently at first, but then tighter, stepping closer until they were chest to chest, the man's erection hot and hard against Lestrade's hip, yet he didn't dare to move. The eyes never seemed to blink as they stared into his face, pale eyes the colour of the sea, looking into his soul.

 

And then he was kissed, a searing hot kiss full of promise. He moved, wrapping his arms around the slim body, allowing his fingers to press hard against the ribs, slide down the spine, knead the taught, muscular buttocks. He hadn't even noticed they'd moved until he was on his back on the bed, the man easing down on top of him, in control, always in control.

 

"Ready?" The man was sincere, so it was barely a question, more of a statement – a warning.

 

He nodded, shifting, his legs raised, his body open, no turning back. There was a pause, the soft wet sound of lube squeezing from a tube, then the cold as a long finger applied it. Lestrade closed his eyes, readying himself. It had been years. He wondered if he should say so, but it was too late now. The pressure increased to pain, but nothing he hadn't expected. He felt as if the other man sensed his need for a little time, a little gentle treatment. He hoped it wouldn't last. It wasn't what he wanted – he wanted hot, hard, rough life-affirming sex. He opened his eyes and realised the man was trembling slightly, his face had a sheen of sweat. It was somehow gratifying, knowing that after years of loveless sex – and more years of no sex at all – that someone could be so fired up over him.

 

"Move," he panted out, needing to feel the energy.

 

The only warning he got was the tightening of the grip on his hips, the long bony fingers digging into his flesh, then a hard thrust, driving inside him. He moaned, wrapping his legs around the man's waist, urging him on. He reached up, running his hands over the smooth planes of the man's chest. The man was making small noises now, panting, both of them working for the climax, working for pleasure. Lestrade felt free, felt as if he was suddenly drowning in sensation after years of drought. Then one of the hands on his hips moved, and his cock was wrapped in a tight fist. The extra sensation pushed him over the edge and he came, hard, semen spurting out across his chest and belly. He could hear himself swearing, panting, and the younger man was matching him as the waves of pleasure coursed through him. Then the head was thrown back, dark curls now sweat-slicked, and the man thrust deeply, his grip increasing, his body taught, muscles quivering.

 

And finally they were a mess of sweat and semen and arms and legs, tangled on the bed, slender, pale skin entwined with Lestrade's more muscular limbs.

 

Lestrade looked up at the ceiling, noting the expensive wallpaper, the heavy dark wood furniture. He wondered what this man did – obviously from money, but no real clues about a job or role in life. He heard the click of a lighter and watched as the man took a long drag from the cigarette, before passing it to Lestrade, who accepted it gratefully. They weren't cuddling, exactly; they were just lying together, slightly propped on pillows, enough contact to be comforting. Lestrade felt more relaxed than he had in years.

 

"You can stay, if you want," the man said, as they swapped the cigarette back and forth.

 

Lestrade looked surprised. "No I should…" and then he realised he really didn't have much to go home to – an uncomfortable night on the sofa, probably another argument in the morning.

 

"I didn't think you'd want to go back to your wife. You've obviously argued, and clearly you're not interested in saving the relationship. She probably thought you were sleeping with someone else anyway – may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, Sergeant."

 

Lestrade slowly turned his head, trying to take in everything he'd just heard. The man looked utterly unconcerned, trying to blow a smoke ring, his hair in disarray, limbs loose and relaxed.

 

"How…what…how?" he stuttered.

 

The man sighed, as if it was so very tiring having to explain himself. "You arrived in the bar late, dressed in a suit. You downed your first drink. It was obviously the first place you'd been for a drink tonight, despite the late hour. You didn't have a coat with you – everyone this morning would have left home with a coat, ergo you probably worked late, went home, had some sort of argument – possibly about working late, although it would really have been a culmination of other things, too, and you walked out, forgetting your coat. I imagine the argument would have turned to an accusation of infidelity, because of your working hours and lack of interest in sex with your wife. You weren't cheating on her though, you just weren't interested, but some sort of loyalty meant that until tonight you hadn't acted upon your desire to indulge in a homosexual relationship. Tonight you stopped caring, you headed directly to a bar knowing what you would find there, and you didn't bother removing your wedding ring – a clear sign that you have decided that your marriage is over and you no longer care if people know it. Men who intend to continue their marriages whilst also picking other men up in bars always remove their wedding rings."

 

"And…" Lestrade was scared to ask how the man knew he was a police officer, because he wasn't yet sure if it was a wild stab in the dark.

 

"And?" the pale eyes looked at him questioningly.

 

"You think I'm a…sergeant?"

 

There was an eyeroll. "Shoes which are far too sensible for an office job, no thought to fashion, just practicality. Wear on them shows you walk a lot, but you also sit at a desk and rest your feet on the bottom of your chair. The cut and make of your suit is also functional, nothing special, mid-range. You wear it because you think you need to, but you don't want to spend too much in case it gets ruined." He paused for a moment, then a small smile appeared on his lips. "And your picture was in the paper four months ago – 'Hero Saves Child in Train Terror."

 

Lestrade smiled – he had, for a moment, wondered if the man was somehow reading his mind. "It was nothing heroic," he answered.

 

The man next to him shrugged. "The papers do love to dramatise things."

 

"And you? You know everything about me, what about you?" Lestrade asked.

 

"You know everything you need to," the man smiled. "You just haven't thought about it yet."

 

 

As Lestrade walked the empty London streets early the next morning he knew he was going to be thinking about the young man a lot.

 

~Fin

 


End file.
